Ode to Frankenstein: The Agony of the Unmade

In lightning’s grasp, the monster wakes,

A soul unbound, yet flesh that aches.

From stolen bones and hands entwined,

A spark defiled the laws divine.

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Oh, stitched and scarred, yet made to be,

A shadow cast on destiny.

A titan shaped by godless art,

With borrowed limbs, a stolen heart.

—

The graveyard whispers, earth disturbed,

The toll of sins, the dark interred.

No mother’s arms, no father’s grace,

Just horror carved upon his face.

—

In icy winds and torches bright,

He walks alone—a dreaded sight.

A specter cursed by man’s own hand,

Yet more human than they’d understand.

—

Creator fled, his maker blind,

To love he sought, yet none to find.

He mourned, he raged, he begged the skies,

Yet only echoed his own cries.

—

So woe to gods who fashion woe,

From lightning’s touch, from cursed below.

For man, in hubris, stitched too high,

And bore a beast that will not die.

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Author’s Note

Frankenstein’s monster is more than a stitched-together abomination; he is the embodiment of sorrow, rejection, and the consequences of human hubris. In writing this ode, I sought to capture the tragedy of a creature born not from malice, but from man’s reckless ambition—a being who never asked to exist, yet is condemned to eternal suffering.

This poem is not just a tribute to Mary Shelley’s timeless masterpiece, but a meditation on what it means to be human, to be cast aside, and to rage against an existence that offers neither solace nor understanding. In the end, who is the real monster—the one created, or the one who abandoned his creation?

—Jason